


We are all chameleons.

by YourFadedGlory (HisNameWasAce)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, References to Suicide and a Suicide attempt, References to self-harm, major trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3275348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisNameWasAce/pseuds/YourFadedGlory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sid passes him in the handshake line Patrick forgets he has to let go, that’s when Dupuis gets in his face demanding to know if there’s a problem.</p><p>Patrick doesn’t know that either.</p><p>To him it’s a problem, because Sidney is Sidney. He’s perfect if a little robotic with the press, he’s the face of his franchise if not the whole sport, he’s the golden kid who’s got slashes carved up and down his wrists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are all chameleons.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who don't read the tags let me address this one more time: MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING
> 
>  
> 
> **"I believe we all give ******  
>  **a unique part of ourselves  
> **  
>  **to our lovers.  
> **  
>  **Each one gets different pieces  
> **  
>  **that they associate with our  
> **  
>  **external shells.  
> **  
>  **We are all chameleons."**  
>  _-Chrissie Pinney_
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> **  
> **  
> **  
> **  
> ****  
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 

When Sidney threw down his gloves, Patrick had been glad to give him the fight he was looking for. Not many people could say they’d scrapped with Crosby, it’d make for a good story someday, one to tell the boys back home. But as the brunette’s sleeves rode up, his fists knotted in the fabric of Patrick’s jersey, the blonde couldn’t help but notice the scars.

Hockey players have scars.

Patrick knows this, they’re a part of their profession, a price they pay to be able to play the most beautiful game on earth.

Scars happen, everywhere and in every size.

But this scar and the smaller ones around it, that carve down the inside of Crosby’s wrist, they don’t just _happen_ , they’re smooth, deliberate in a way he wished he could forget.

Janie Pullman had scars like that, hidden away under the sleeves of baggy sweaters. He only ever saw them once or twice, when she reached for a book or was scribbling away on an assignment. Patrick hadn’t known her all that well, but she’d seemed nice enough, book savvy and something of a loner. He never would have guessed what those scars would lead to, that one early summer day he would walk down the hall and see Mr. Pullman cleaning out Janie’s locker, his face guilt stricken and tear streaked.

They’d found her in a bathtub, the water cooled and stained a violent red. A rejection letter from Stanford next to the bloodied razor.

Scars like that don’t just _happen_.

His fists went slack, and Crosby’s eyes snapped up in confusion. He wasn’t the type of guy to swing if the other guy didn’t want to go, something Patrick would have appreciated if he could have torn his eyes away from the man’s arm.

Realizing exactly what Patrick’s line of sight was so intently focused on, Crosby yanked away like he’d been burned, only cementing the blonde’s suspicions.

Confused, the refs circled uncertainly, trying to decide whether or not to hand out penalties for a fight in which not a single punch was thrown.

“Sidney…” Patrick skated forward a tentative step, but the brunette was already gone, scooping up his gloves, the blades of his skates cutting divots into the ice with the amount of force the Pittsburgh captain put behind them.

His first instinct was to follow, to rip off Crosby’s gloves and demand to know what he could do. It was probably arrogant to think he could help, but he wanted to, he wanted it more than anything else.

To help.

The thing was Patrick didn’t _know_ Sidney, he hadn’t had a conversation with him, hadn’t looked his way more than once off the ice. He’s was Crosby, distant and out of his depth.

It wasn’t like he could just throw himself over an opposing teams bench and manhandle their captain without repercussions.

“Kaner!” Duncs was shouting, skating up behind the blonde and giving his thighs a few taps with the flat of his stick, obviously concerned. Still feeling like the air had been punched out of his lungs and his legs had turned to jelly, Pat turned back and headed for friendly territory.

He couldn’t shake the feelings, the memories.

His mind was on Janie and Sidney and the scars they shared.

So in the end, when the last buzzer blared and the board read 2-0, the loss didn’t sting all that bad. Because this thing was bigger than hockey, this thing--Patrick doesn’t know if it’s a secret-- that he’s uncovered. It sits on his shoulders and claws at his stomach.

When Sid passes him in the handshake line Patrick forgets he has to let go, that’s when Dupuis gets in his face demanding to know if there’s a problem.

Patrick doesn’t know that either.

To him it’s a problem, because Sidney is Sidney. He’s perfect if a little robotic with the press, he’s the face of his franchise if not the whole sport, he’s the golden kid who’s got slashes carved up and down his wrists.

That seems like a problem, a _big_ problem, but Sidney didn't say a word. He quieted Dupuis with a whisper too low for Patrick to catch, before prying his hand free and making his way along.

* * *

 

Jonny elbows him in the locker room, a quick jab just below his ribs that hurts like a motherfucker. He had his laser shark eyes going, ticked up from the usual post loss _we’re gonna bag skate till we vomit_ to _Imma kill you in your sleep_.

Patrick couldn’t pretend he didn’t know why, he’d played a shit game.

The glare was warranted.

But the elbow wass a bit much, so the blonde elbowed Jonny back just as sharply.

“What’s up with you? After your not-fight with Sid you skated around like a headless chicken.” Jonny muttered, rubbing his side with a scowl.

Patrick hesitates a moment too long before answering, looking for an excuse and coming up empty handed.

“Just tired.”

The lie scrapes between his teeth and he knows Jonny doesn’t buy it for a second, because his scowl does that freaky thing where it turns into a cartoon perfect frown that draws Jonny’s entire face down like a full inch. His chin bunches up and his shark eyes narrow impossibly more.

Part of Patrick wished his friend’s face would stick that way so the PR people could put it on a bobblehead, the other part wished to never see that particular expression ever again. Neither of which was any more likely to happen than the other.

Huffing out a gusty sigh, he leaned back in the too cramped guest stall, raking his fingers through shower dampened curls. “It’s...well I don’t really know what it is. I mean I know what it is, but I don’t really _know_. Cause I think I have an idea of what it is, but this thing isn’t like a one scenario fits all, so I might be totally off base.” He rambled, watching Jonny’s brow knit together in confusion as he tried to dissect the vague babbling.

“Are you hot for _Sid_?” Jonny blurted, eyebrows climbing comically toward his hair line while his frown went slack.

And well, to be fair, there had been a mention of bases and Patrick guessed that was a reasonable enough point for Jonny to base his assumption on. After all, it was _Jonny_ he was talking to.

What wasn’t reasonable was what he blurted in response.

“Yeah, well maybe, I mean I don’t really know?”

Patrick shrugged, wondering at his own brain to mouth filter. Sure, Crosby had a nice ass and his face wasn’t horrible since he’d gotten that handful of teeth put back in.

But that definitely wasn’t where his mind was, at least not at the moment. Still, the admission was a decent foundation for the next question his inner genius spawned.

“Do you have his address?”

* * *

 

That’s how Patrick ends up taking a cab up to Sewickley and climbing a wrought iron gate in a pair of his best slacks.

No one answers when he jabs at the doorbell, so the blonde can only assume that the massive house’s lone resident was out celebrating his win. It isn’t as odd an image as some would think, he remembers the olympics, both of them.

Sitting on the front steps of the porch, combing through all of his memories of Crosby, Pat becomes aware of just how few there are. The brunette is just as elusive as the press give him credit for, like he exists only in people’s peripheral vision until he wants to be up in your face and proving you wrong. It’s an odd skill set for someone like Crosby, Pat had always figured his big presence on the ice should have translated into an even bigger presence off of it.

He was wondering idly about what would have forced Crosby into becoming the chameleon that he is, when the sound of tires creeping up the flagstone drive pulled him out of his thoughts.

Crosby doesn’t notice him at first, stepping out of the rover and pulling his gear bag out of the backseat. He’s dressed down in a pair of dark wash jeans and a gray henley that pulls tight over his chest, a baseball cap pulled low over his face.

Pat cleared his throat, watching the brunette startle and whip around to face him. He’s clearly surprised, but the look is fleeting, replaced with a guarded scowl in the fraction of a second it takes Patrick to blink.

It really only feeds the fire fueling his chameleon comparison.

“How did you get in here?”

Patrick shrugged, “Jonny told me your address.”

“I meant, how’d you get past the gate?” Crosby muttered, shouldering past to get to his front door. Pat could practically see the wheels turning his head, trying to identify the gaps in his security.

“I climbed it.” The blonde replied easily, not missing the small upward tilt of the other’s lips. It’s gone in a flash, but not before Pat notices.

“Do you make a habit of trespassing, or am I just special?”

Pat takes back his earlier thought about robots, Sidney Crosby is far more sassy than anyone has given him due credit for.

“You’re _something_...I haven’t figured out exactly what.” Pat replies honestly, watching Crosby shove his key in the lock and shoulder open the front door. He hasn’t been invited in though, so he doesn’t move, rooted to the spot just off the porch steps.

Crosby moves inside, toes off his shoes in the entryway and putters off to stash his gear bag, probably in a mud room to air out. Normally Patrick would have taken that as a dismissal, but the brunette hadn’t shut the door behind him.

He’s on the verge of swallowing all his apprehensions and just walking in, when Crosby reappears in the doorframe, leaning against it with a slightly cocked eyebrow. “If you’re here to figure me out, better men have tried and failed.” He mutters, not perfectly impassive, but nearly.

The jab stings a bit, but Patrick knows a good challenge when he hears one.

“Maybe it doesn’t take a better man, maybe it takes someone who plays dirty, someone who isn’t afraid of to acknowledge the reality of what’s on your wrist.”

Crosby’s eyes harden, and Patrick half expects the door to be slammed in his face.

Instead the brunette eases off the frame and ambles inside.

This time, Pat doesn't hesitate to follow.

* * *

 

He finds himself sitting on an oddly comfortable barstool at Crosby’s kitchen island, the marble countertop cool under his hands as he watches the other man go about making two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with vanilla protein shakes to go with them.

Chameleon or not, the lengths of Canadian politeness are no joke. Pat finds himself with a plate and glass set in front of him, while Crosby climbs up on the barstool across from him.

They eat in companionable silence and Crosby clears the dishes before Patrick can put up a token protest.

He gets up, strolls over to lean against the counter near the sink. The water’s steaming hot and it leaves Crosby’s hands flushed a pale pink from the heat, the scars darken as well, stark marks that decorate the skin from the heel of his hand to just a couple inches down.

Most of the marks are thin, spindly lines that wouldn’t look near as sinister if not for their smooth and deliberate appearance. But there were a few that were jagged, like they’d been made hastily, careless of the pain and damage done. There’s at least one scar on each wrist, thick and slightly raised that Patrick knows in his gut were meant to be fatal.

The thought turns his legs to jelly and Pat has to grip the counter to keep from swaying.

Crosby’s gaze catches his own and damn it all because Pat knows he’s got nothing on his chameleon skills, the flicker of concern that crosses the brunette’s face is proof enough he’s shit at hiding the horror show running in his head.

“You alright?” It’s a hesitant inquiry, and Pat feels like shit when Crosby reaches for a dishtowel to hide away his wrists. He didn’t come here to shame him into hiding, in fact he came to do the exact fucking opposite.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Pat knows it’s the wrong question to ask the moment it leaves his lips. Crosby’s face shuts down like a curtain’s been pulled over it, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes a stone cold that would rival even Jonny’s.

“Is that why you came?” The question is harsh, demanding in a way that only a captain can be.

Pat can’t find an answer, but no answer seems to be the wrong one, because the next thing he knows Crosby has him backed up into the counter, pressing so far into his space that the knobs of the cabinets dug into his back.

“You want to play the _hero_.”

The hissed accusation is like a bucket of ice water over his head, but Patrick can’t deny it. He doesn’t know why he came, only that he felt compelled to help. But the scars are faded, not a fresh mark to be found, and with Crosby towering over him he doesn’t seem like the type to need saving.

But Crosby’s reaction, visceral and angry, it’s the first crack he’s found in an otherwise perfect camouflage.

“You’re...you’re not a damsel in distress.” Patrick mutters, watching Crosby’s hard hazel gaze rake over him.

“So if I don’t need saving, why are you here?” The brunette demanded, pulling away just enough to let Pat breathe a bit easier.

“I think, I think I just want to understand.” To understand what he didn’t back in school, when it was Janie and not Crosby, when he’d been too late to notice.

“Was it the whole draft lottery thing, or the lockout? Was it losing Lemieux, or taking his place?” Patrick had to know, had to make sure that underneath his master manipulation and adaptability, Crosby wasn’t ticking time bomb.

“NO.” Sid’s eyes flash, and Pat knows he’s turned that crack into a fissure

“It was losing by a goddamn point in game six, it was years of abuse from parents and teammates and opponents, it was having to say goodbye to Jack, and Colby, and Talbo, and Jordie. It was two crippling concussions, it was leaving Marc out to dry and reading headline after headline about Geno being better without me. It was the suffocation of trying to live up to impossible amounts of hype, it was the fall from a pedestal I never should have been on!”

It’s a tidal wave, over his head, and leaving Pat well out of his depth.

Crosby’s chest was heaving, eyes shiny with tears Pat had never wanted him to shed.

He reached out hesitantly, pulling the dish towel out of Sid’s hands to hold his wrists. His thumbs tracing along the thickest scars, the pair of raised marks that screamed louder than any voice could.

“These, what were these?”

“They were one too many losses, they were watching Mario hang his head in disappointment. They were one too many jeers, being called a _fag_ in the handshake line and getting beer dumped on me in the penalty box, one too many times. They were an impulse, a moment of desperation and pain in a Philadelphia hotel room.”

Patrick tries to remember, tries to think back. The team would have never admitted what happened, his teammates would have never leaked it to the media.They would have called it an undisclosed lower body injury, or maybe upper.

So long as Crosby kept his gloves on and his sleeves pulled down, nobody would have been the wiser.

“Why do you care?” It’s a broken whisper, Crosby’s head bowed low.

Sometimes even a chameleon can’t keep up with the colors that change around it and it’s left there, exposed and vulnerable for all to see.

“I was too late once...I wasn’t...I _couldn’t_ make the same mistake a second time.” Pat mutters in reply, pulling Crosby into him, stretching awkwardly onto his tip toes so he can cradle the taller man’s head to his chest.

Fists twist in the fabric of his suit jacket and Patrick soaks in Crosby’s quiet rage. He has every right to be mad, hell Patrick’s mad for him, but that anger isn’t gonna help--not tonight.

“Crosby-”

He hiccups a laugh, picking up his head to meet Patrick’s gaze. “I think after all that, you can call me Sid.”

“Sid,” Pat amends, stroking a hand through his chocolate brown curls, not missing the way the other man leaned into the touch.

“Yeah?”

“You can call me Pat.” The blonde muttered in reply, gentle and soothing. He reached down a bit, untucked his shirt from his pants and lifts it exposing the soft flesh just above his hipbone.

Sid sucks in a quiet breath, Pat can feel his chest stop moving while he holds it.

There are straight spindly lines that cut like tally marks in a pearly white against the peach of his skin. Even the newest scars are over a year old, but Patrick still remembers the crippling anxiety, his crushed self esteem which he’d hidden behind too wide smiles and well timed jokes.

“We don’t need saving.” Sid murmurs, his palm settling warm and soft over the exposed skin.

“No we don’t...but we do need support.” Pat replied, drawing Sid’s face up so they were eye to eye, a clash of blue against hazel.

They could only change color so many times before someone saw the truth, the scars and the stories behind them.

Two months later with Sid curled up on his couch in Chicago, debating Friends over Parks and Rec even after a brutal Blackhawks thrashing, Pat can’t help but think that while their [chameleon skins](http://lightningsoul.com/media/img/photo/two_chameleons_for_glory.jpg) serve them well on the outside, here, when it’s [just them](http://www.dailyherald.com/storyimage/DA/20140221/sports/140229534/AR/0/AR-140229534.jpg&updated=201402211652&MaxW=800&maxH=800&noborder)...the truth is far more beautiful.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was just one of those things that sat in my google docs forever. I reread it and it just wouldn't let me go, so this is just a few hours of me thinking out-loud and lamenting the lack of Pat/Sid fic. Feedback, kudos, and those willing to wallow in the lack of Pat/Sid fic always welcomed and appreciated.


End file.
